


Immortan

by vonBoomslang



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Afterlife, Fluff, Gen, Post-Movie(s), Valhalla
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-03 16:45:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4107903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vonBoomslang/pseuds/vonBoomslang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Joe. After the Ride East. After death itself. Those that lived, and those who live again.<br/>A look at a world after the events of Fury Road by way of loosely linked stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The War Boy

For a moment, he saw.

For just a moment, Mutt saw everything.

He saw, to his left, that armored giant, the Battle Bus, smoke billowing from its pipes and dust from under its wheels. He saw the scratches and harpoons marring its thick hide. He saw that window panel that had been torn loose, and behind it, those frightened refugees, dozens of them, slaves until just hours ago, but by the Imperator's will never again. He saw his fellow War Boys, in the windows and the battlements, pointing, and staring, and shouting, at him, all at him.

And he saw, before him, that crude raider car, its hood covered in spikes and explosives, its front bearing on the bus, its wounded driver laughing, a lit flare in his hand and madness in his eyes.

And he knew it was a stupid plan, and that Chain would have had a smarter one, a better one, but Chain was dead, in the seat to his right, the light gone from his eyes and the blood from his veins, one side of his neck gone, just gone. Chain had been the smart one. Chain had been the smart one and the brave one and the driver, but now he was dead and his Lancer had to drive and he saw.

He saw his hands, bony white not from paint but from being clenched on the wheel, pulling it to the right. He saw the raider's head jerk when he rammed into his side, throwing him off course just enough. He saw his own reflection in the dislodged mirror, and his dry lips whispering a word, just two words, like an old prayer.

He saw the flare fall from the raider's hand, and a moment later, he saw nothing but fire.

The world went hot, then cold, then silent, then loud again.

He heard the explosion and his eyes flew open. There was a silver cloud in the sky, dissipating slowly. And somehow, he recognized it and rose, eyes following the smoke trail down and down until he saw the woman, wrapped up and masked, a flaregun by her side and a storm of black hair on her head. And behind here, the wreck of a car, no, two cars, and no matter how burnt and twisted, he recognized one.

"Chain!" He yelled and leapt to his feet, running, out of breath and on all fours when his footing gave out. But he reached the wreck and looked inside and his heart sank. He was not there, no body in that seat, not even a scrap of clothing, not in the car, not anywhere.

"Chain!" He called out again, voice hoarse, desperately looking through the wreckage.

"He's already waiting on you!" Came a voice, but it wasn't the woman's. Mutt wheeled around and he saw. There stood a Pursuit Vehicle, one he had never seen before, as he would definitely remembered those sleek lines and menacing trophies. And in the Lancer's perch was a War Boy, scrawny as they went, leaning his elbows on the hood and smiling.

"Wh- where?!" Mutt demanded, and the other War Boy laughed. With those lip scars and the sacred icon across his chest, he seemed strangely familiar, as if Mutt had seen him before, maybe back when he was himself a War Pup, back when there was white paint and the mad Immortan.

"At the end of the road!" He finally answered, and before Mutt could ask, he gestured. He turned, and once more, he saw. There was the woman, now sitting astride a dirt bike, and behind her, shimmering like a mirage, there stood groups, warbands, legions of War Boys, on bikes, cars, rigs, their hands raised, their heads bowed, their fingers interlocked. And they chanted. And behind them, a road, not dirt, not even earth, but asphalt, black and wide, rising up onto pillars of stone, trailing away towards the horizon.

There was a slam and Mutt turned again, to where the War Boy banged on the car's roof again. "You coming?" He called out, and Mutt found himself with a dozen questions but with his eyes on the car and his legs moving. He fell into the seat and no sooner he saw the empty steering column a wheel had been thrust into his hands, and it was like none he had seen before. He would have remembered one so similar to his own scars.

He looked up, only to see the other War Boy smiling. It was such a strange expression. So.. serene. "Where does the road lead?" He asked, hands mounting the wheel and hitting the ignition of their own will. The engine roared to life, and it was the most beautiful sound Mutt had ever heard.

"Where do you think?" The War Boy looked off into the distance, past the horizon, and for a moment he seemed… radiant. Ethereal. Immortal. "Valhalla!"

And they raised their hands, and made the sign of V8, and burned his body, and named him Immortan. And Mutt rode eternal, shiny and chrome.


	2. The Valkyrie

Kamakrazee, they call her.

Captive, they find her. She is scarred; unpretty. Her shoulders too wide, her hair unkempt, her fingers calloused by labor and burnt by battery acid. They find her, and free her, but really, she frees herself. Her captor, she offs with her own shackles. They free her, but she does not want freedom.

What about the others, she asks. What about those not riding with her, those back at camp. She has to come back. She promised them. She will not go. Not without them.

So they go. And she fights. And she frees them. But she is not done. There is a fury in her eyes. They are strong, and so is she. 

Kamakrazee, they call her. And so, the War Boys take her. Sister, they call her. Cutter, they call her, irony or prophecy, who can tell. She is full-life but she is like them. They cut her hair and paint her skin, and she rides with them. She cannot drive and shoots poorly, but fights like a demon. And so, she rides with them.

The Imperator sees, and the Imperator is saddened. Perhaps she sees herself in that fury, in that rage. Perhaps she knows how it is, to lose oneself until there is nothing left, nothing but the need to lash out at one’s captors. Perhaps she knows where that leads. But she does not stop her.

Cutter does not care. She belongs to the wasteland. She is ready to throw her full life to the crows. She does not care for the New Green. She does not care for safety. She wishes only to hunt those who hurt her, those like them. And the wasteland ever provides.

But there is one who cares. One who saw zeal like that, misplaced, misguided. And so, the Red Mother rides out. And the War Boys ride with her, and with them, Cutter. From the Steelworks, they ride; past the Buzzards, they ride; east, they ride, to where the rock riders once had dominion. And there, in the collapsed canyon, the Red Mother finds what she sought.

None know what the Red Mother said to Cutter then. The War Boys who rode with say nothing. But Cutter returns changed. She is calmer. Determined. There is a purpose in her eyes. And in her hand she bears a tool, a weapon, a relic of the sacred War Rig.

Cutter, they call her. Cutter, bearer of the Bolt Cutters. Cutter of chains and fates. The one who rides with the War Boys, who leads them, who rescues and saves those who were like her. And in time, she finds others like her who wish to fight. She calms them, recruits them, gives them purpose. Valkyries, they call them, saviors, angels, woman-warriors.

And she rides, and they ride with her. Full-life, she rides with the half-lives, and she dies like they do - screaming, bloodied, victorious, historic. And by then there is another, another to take her burden to take her role. Full-life, she was never fully a War Boy; she recruited the Valkyries, and so she was not one either.

Not War Boy and not Valkyrie, but both surround her. She is neither, but they know what she is.

“V8!” Chant one, hands lifted, together in their sign.

“Unbound!” Chant the other, their hands making the sign of the Bolt Cutters.

Immortan, they call her, and give her body to the flames.

\----

She wakes, slowly. Has she been dreaming? Her freedom? Her vengeance? Was it a dream?

But no. She feels her scars. She feels the soreness of her limbs and the weight of her gear. In her hand, she feels her namesake. And that gives her the will to stand.

And stand she does, as if shouldering a great burden, as if supported by a hundred hands and a thousand souls. She stands, and the dust and the weariness falls off her and she is ready. There are those who need her, and there is a woman, astride her bike.

They watch each other, warily, for a time. Warriors both, both taken before their time. The wind sweeps the dust and their hair.

“Immortan.” Says one, in time, bowing her head.

“Valkyrie.” Says the other, and they approach and greet each other, not as old friends, but as two who share a great respect.

“I took your name.” Cutter says, half joke, not apology. 

“It still had some use left in it, then.” the woman answers, with a humorless but friendly laugh. She beckons. “Come. I'll show you the way.”

“To Valhalla?”

Valkyrie winces for a moment. “That is what the War Boys call it, yes.” But soon, her mood lightens. “But it's not them you'll be asked to guide, is it.”

She leaves her bike and begins to walk. Cutter follows, her half-head of hair no cleaner but lighter than ever before. There is a path there, in the endless dust, hidden to all but the worthy eyes. But where does it lead? “What is it to you, then?” She asks.

“To me?” The woman before her turns her head. There is something about her smile. Something soft. “To me, has always been the Green Place.”

And so Cutter goes, and in time leads others, to the Green Place, where there are no chains. 


End file.
